


Give Me Forever, And I Will Give You A Choice

by Oaklin



Series: Forever Everything [42]
Category: Canadian Professional Wrestling International, Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst?, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M, Swearing, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, but sort of, descriptions of gross things, grabby-handed creeper tendencies, non-consensual sadomasochism, not really - Freeform, obligatory Kevin Steen warning, or anything else romantic, unless you count bby!Steen's... you know, zero stealth romance in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 05:34:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10430235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oaklin/pseuds/Oaklin
Summary: It's a curse, a burden, and his greatest fear.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello!
> 
>  **Warning!** This fic contains very NSFW content. Not even gonna beat around the bush, this is finally the actual match, between Kevin and Generico at Wrestlefest. This is not a Feel Good Fight, like When Forever Takes Your Breath Away. This is very much an angry, needy, desperate fight. It also starts at the tail end of the encounter, so they are both tired and running on pure adrenaline, and just ready to slam each other into things and burn together. And I don't mean that in the sexual way, necessarily.
> 
> That being said, there is quite a bit of really inappropriate- stealth sexual assault? That sounds far too irreverent for the subject matter, but I don't know what else to call that thing that bby!Steen did, since he always seemed GENUINELY convinced that it was pure hatred and violence, and here, as it has been established, it is most definitely not purely any _one_ emotion. Needless to say, bby!Steen is in full Wires-Crossed-What-Do mode here, waffling in and out of desperate need and violent anger.
> 
> I'm just saying, if you are sensitive to violence with unconscious, deeply unpleasant sexual undertones, (did I mention that this is from bby!Steen's perspective? halp me pls) don't read this. For everyone else, I hope you... uh, enjoy :/

He breaths in with each sharp strike, focusing on the blunt, visceral noises each impact produces.

He can’t focus on the wet, agonized gasps that immediately follow each blow.

He _can’t_.

- ** _want_** -

He lifts **_that_ ** form up, his thick fingers digging into the meat of a slender neck. He tightens his grip, ignoring the stabs of pain as nimble feet lash out desperately. Shaking hands come up, griping his wrists, tugging futilely at his iron grip. A choked off noise reaches his ears and he inhales through the desperate flood of - ** _want_** \- even as he sinks his fingers deeper into that flesh, feeling the racing pulse reverberate through his fingers.

His thumb sinks frighteningly easily into the soft, vulnerable skin. His victim makes a strangled, distressed noise that **feels** like a **_searing blow_** to his very _soul_. He suddenly can’t catch his breath anymore, nor can he seem to _see_ properly beyond ** _that face_** and all that it **means**.

He stumbles to the edge of the ring, dumping the _heavy burden_ over the side, turning away without even taking the satisfaction of watching the body tumble over the apron and fall to the floor in a heap. Instead, he turns his back to the dimly _flickering flame_ , too exhausted to appreciate the feel of the **dying glow** hitting his back. He sags unceremoniously to the floor, choking on the **_darkness_ ** welling in his throat and relishing the way the ropes scrape harshly across his back as he descends to the mat.

It’s **undignified** , he thinks.

To be here, brought low by his _own body_ -

- _mind_ -

- _heart_ -

-wasting away on the blood and sweat stained mat. Prone on it’s filthy surface, laying down with the dogs, as it were.

He pushes the ref away rather violently, as the other man leans down to inspect him. He hears a rebuke, and the cretin squats down again, this time grabbing Kevin’s shoulder, as if to pacify him.

He reaches up, lurching out and gasping the fool by the back of his neck, his bloody fingers digging into his skin before slamming the fucker face first into the mat. The man doesn’t make more than a muffled screech, to his credit, though he lets out a much louder bellow before grabbing his face and rolling away from Kevin, scuttling to the other side of the ring before seeming to pass out from _something_. He just collapses there, in a dejected heap, blood seeping into the stained mat below his head.

- _good_ -

- _ **want**_ -

He does _want_ , he realizes.

( **always** )

Now more than ever though. He is struck by it all at once, as he lays there, panting, desperately sucking in air, though he feels as though there is not enough oxygen in the world at the moment.

He shifts, peering over at the form stirring on the outside of the ring. He sees a pale back, painted black and blue-

- _by the hands you see before you_ -

- _mine_ -

-mutely twitching it’s way toward the crowd barriers, quite obviously trying to get some assistance in getting back to **_his_ ** feet.

Kevin watches that body move, eyes following each movement with bated breath, though he isn’t sure _why_. He is sure that as much as he enjoys wrestling, he hates this rancorous crowd, shouting abuse and taunts at them, watching his every move and **knowing** far **_too much_**.

 _Seeing_ too much.

He also hates that beautifully bruised back. That artfully sculpted masterpiece that he painted with his **own hands** , that is attached to that stubborn, hard head, hidden from his eyes by that blasted black and white **_lie_** -

- ** _mine_** -

-all encapsulated by that one _smile_ , that always makes him far more out of breath then he is right now. That smile that makes what he - _wants_ \- and - ** _needs_** \- at this second, feel all the more _wrong_.

Or **right** , he isn’t sure anymore.

Still though. He hates it all.

All of it.

Every last bit.

The crowd, the piece of shit ref, the boy clinging to the barricade, spit and sweat and blood dripping to the ground beneath his tired body.

He even hates this very ring, Kevin decides. All that it **stands for** , and all that it has made him into. All that it has made him do.

Made him do in the heat of the moment.

It is a putrid, vile thing of bitterness and regret, and he doesn’t **want** to be laying here, with the passed out ref, for even another _second_.

Kevin - ** _wants_** \- to be laying outside the ring. On the thin padding, with the cigarette butts and the sloshed beer and the thrown garbage.

He _wants_ to be laying with the choking, desperately coughing figure, who is now clambering shakily up the barricade, only to slither back down, as **_his_ ** strength gives out on **_him_ ** at the last second.

- _so go then_ -

- _take_ -

The skin is hot to the touch as he grasps onto it. He can practically **feel** it burning the flesh from his bones, but for some reason the sensation makes him want _more_ physical contact, not less.

He obliges his own urges, seeing no reason not to at the present moment.

He came down here, out of the _darkness_ and into the **weakly flickering light** , for a **_reason_ ** after all.

The body in his hands makes a pitiful sound of protest, but other than that doesn’t put up too much of a fight as Kevin sinks his fingers into mottled skin and slings him over, up onto his own body for a tantalizing second, before pressing him down onto the floor.

The passive submission ends a he sinks his weight down on top of the slighter form. He watches with mild interest as the body under his flails, wondering exactly how painful it must be for someone to sink their whole weight down onto you, wonders if the gasping and whimpering indicates that **_he_ ** now has a sense of the **crushing weight** of **_forever_**.

- _can't burn **him** alive_ -

( _crush **him**_ with it all instead)

“Ke-!”

The sound is choked off and breathless, blurted out through sluggish lips. He listens to the exhausted groan that follows the utterance, watches the body under his shudder and then still, their breaths synchronizing to the tune of the shrieks filling the warehouse.

He settles, sinking into the burn, breathing through the sweltering air rising up off of his partner, like the man is an inferno that Kevin is standing far too close too.

(or laying on top of)

(...whatever)

- ** _want_** -

Still. Not just standing to close to, **touching**. With his _bare skin_.

Holding the _**flame** _ in his **bloody hands**.

Molding that _skin_ to his _**liking**_.

Pressing their sweat slick bodies together until they both go up in flames, the way he has always **_needed_** -

( **fuck** )

- ** _take_** -

“Por favor... amigo...”

shit

- _weak_ -

And oh, he **is**. Kevin laughs softly at himself as he pushes himself back, pressing his sore back muscles into the gating, ignoring the rowdy crowd as they shower him with meaningless noise and spilled beer. He lets himself sag against the harsh, cold metal, leaning his head back and staring blearily at the faded lights above the ring, a wry, half malicious smile curling at his lips.

The figure to his left stirs making harsh spluttering noises and Kevin presses himself more firmly into the barrier, the metal little spikes of solidity, something to ground him in the moment.

(or could just fucking look somewhere else)

- ** _so pretty_** -

Hazel eyes catch his, and _something_ -

- _can't **imagine** what_ -

-in his eyes makes _the light_ turn **away** from him.

Makes **_those eyes_** shy away from his gaze.

Kevin squeezes his fists together and lets out a bark of a laugh, the sound rough and grating, his voice coming out like he hasn’t used the damn thing in years.

(feels like it _has_ been years)

(fuck)

Because he is _**weak**_ , he reaches forward, curling his fingers around a thigh, that is only a few inches to his left.

( _also_ because you are **weak** )

- _perhaps_ -

The muscles jump at his touch and he squints, watching **that face** as **_those eyes_** land on him again, full of all sorts of things that Kevin could drink in for the _rest_ of his **life**.

- ** _good_** -

( _feels_ that way)

- ** _exactly_** -

He watches ** _those eyes_** do all sorts of wonderful things as he digs his fingers into that skin. Tears well up in their depths, meaning that there is probably a bruise, or some other wound, under Kevin’s thick fingers right now, the marks no doubt etched into **that skin** , left there by **_Kevin_** -

fuck

He should.

( **stop** )

Or something.

Get up and do _something_.

Something that isn’t.

- _this?_ -

Maybe continue with... **_what_ ** were they doing before?

“This is a show? Are you high or something?”

Kevin twitches, drawing in a harsh breath, feeling a jarring sense of having been shaken from some sort of trance. He glances up, toward the source of the voice that just spoke to him.

The guy gives him a slightly quizzical eyebrow, staring at him with bemusement before gesturing with the hand holding his beer, to the heap of tassels and bruises laying on the floor next to Kevin.

“Wrestling match? You know, your job... presumably, I mean.” The guy goes on conversationally, leaning forward to rest his forearms against the barricade, taking a swig of his beer as he observes the scene before him inquisitively.

(oh)

( _right_ )

Kevin realizes belatedly that he had spoken out loud without meaning to, worse still without knowing that he was uttering actual words. He rolls his eyes, the bizarre nature of the situation not lost on him, though he of course finds issue with the rather unhelpful bystander and his inane, vague, questionable information delivering skills.

“I’m not fucking drunk, not every asshole wants liver cancer by way of cat piss, you nosy little dumpster fire.” Kevin growls, sitting up, refusing to rest his weight against the barricade anymore than he has to.

The guy looks supremely unimpressed with Kevin’s snark, gesturing with his beer again, this time at the ring.

“Maybe you should stick to punching skinny bean-poles, and leave the trash talking to the adults. Violence is way more your speed.”

Kevin rolls to his feet, slapping a hand down on the barricade, smirking when the guy jumps back, taking his arms off the metal and almost dropping his beer in his retreat.

“Why don’t you go back to screaming insults and throwing garbage, you mouth-breathing gutter trash,” He leans in, the overpowering smell of burnt cigarette and stale beer getting stronger as he shifts, “I’d say you are the last person qualified to be making judgment calls about violence of any kind. If I were as scrawny and drunk as you, I wouldn’t be writing checks my ass couldn’t cash.”

The guy glances behind his own shoulder, backing up some more. Kevin shifts, rolling his eyes as he starts to turn away, much more interested in what he was _dining on_ before than this **waste of space**.

Before he has so much as gotten his fingers around the barrier to steady his wobbly form, so he can turn around smoothly without falling flat on his face, the idiot pipes up again, this time from the safety of several feet back from the barrier, surrounded by a group of people giving Kevin wary looks.

“Okay, fair enough. But I don’t think you can really lecture me about getting into fights I can't win-”

The stars that erupt before the fucker even finishes his sentence, render Kevin incapable of hearing the rest of what the asshole said. He staggers, slamming into the barrier, hoping distantly that it will catch him.

(come on, you metal piece of shit)

(this is what you are here for, right?)

- _pretty sure it’s there to protect the audience from **you**_ -

- _also, it is made of aluminum_ -

(made of **toilet paper** )

(fuck)

The floor feels a lot harder this time around. The barrier gives out under his weight and collapses. He attempts to stay standing, but the room is spinning and the back of his head hurts enough that he can feel his stomach churning. He chokes out a vague snarl of contempt before slamming to his knees, the joints in his legs protesting loudly.

Gritting his teeth through the unpleasant reverberations rippling up his thighs, he sways for a heartbeat, watching impassively as the crowd finally catches up to the last few seconds of action and jumps backward, falling over each other to clear out.

He body howling, Kevin exhales harshly, letting himself crumple to the floor with a resounding thud, wincing as the barricade under him digs into his skin.

He glances up, as he lays there on the floor, passively observing the figure that put him there, as **_he_ ** flails into view, desperately grasping at what is left of the barricade. The metal is uncooperative though, and Kevin’s opponent goes down just like he did, though with much less grace and a lot more flailing.

- _grace_ -

(fuck off)

- _sure_ -

Kevin draws in a painful breath, looks over at the sprawl of limbs and **resplendent agony** , drinking in the vivid bruising and the _light_ within the body they are on.

The illumination  _shines_ all the brighter for the palette that he used.

(a **canvas** , if you will)

- ** _mine_** -

(...that‘s pretty fucked)

Kevin barks out a laugh, because yes, it **is** , and yes, **_they are_**.

He‘s staring to think they were from the very **start**.

- ** _forever_** -

(right)

“You’re a fucking imbecile.”

“...si.”

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, uh, well.
> 
> *cough*
> 
> So, I need a fucking drink. You ever write a character, and get so deep into their headspace, that you have to go have a cool-down period somewhere afterward? That's what I was like, both writing and editing this. Jesus.
> 
> Still though, as fucked as this is (Kevin and his fucking understatements) I'm kinda proud. I feel like my range with Kevin is getting better. I have a tendency to shy away from his darker, more non-socially acceptable traits sometimes. While I'm sure that there are plenty of people who think that that is a good thing, I don't like it. As a writer, I hate not writing a character the exact way that they- speak to me? That makes me sound crazy, but you know what I mean. So this was, while a struggle, well worth the effort I think. It feels true to his character in this series.
> 
> That being said, I'm gonna go drink some hot chocolate, listen to some shitty pop music, and play Ni no Kuni. Need some goddamn happiness in my life right now ;-;


End file.
